


To Thine Own Self be True

by NikoNotHere



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Ancient History, M/M, Magic-Users, Prisoner of War, Psychological Warfare, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24486367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere
Summary: A prisoner is captured and tortured, but doesn't know to what end. He must stay alive as long as possible, not for hope of escape, but to learn why he was alive to begin with.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christoph Schneider | Doom
Kudos: 16
Collections: Rammstein - Bonfire - May Prompt





	To Thine Own Self be True

**Author's Note:**

> This is a brand new AU with no ties to previous AU's like Rosenrot-verse or Ich Will. It's vague right now, but more tags/etc will come as the series progresses. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The thunder of hoofbeats roared in his ears just as loudly as the pounding of his own heartbeat, heavy and overwhelming. They would catch him. Their horses were faster and had more endurance than his village's heavy work horses. He could already feel his horse's strides shortening as he began to tire under him. He beat his heels mercilessly against the heaving animal's sides to urge him on even faster. Cruelty to the horse didn't matter if they caught up to him; they'd both be gone before he could even start to feel guilty about it.

A glance behind him solidified his fears. One of them was just cresting the hill and quickly gaining on him. A string of foul, growled curses left his lips as he beat the horse with every last bit of strength and desperation he had. The horse and rider behind him was still fast approaching his heaving, winded horse, and yet another had reached the top of the hill behind that one. He had to lose them. It wasn't negotiable. Death was the only other outcome.

To his left lay a heavy grove of trees leading into the forest, but the safety of his village lay straight north at the base of the mountains. The only problem was the distance. The land leading there was flat, and he knew there was no way he'd make it to safety before he was overtaken. 

He had a split second of deliberation, then pulled his horse hard toward the treeline. He would lose the few precious seconds of lead he had on the horsemen following him, but if he could make it into the forest, he stood a fighting chance. He aimed his slowing mount toward a small opening in the trees, just big enough for he and his stocky work horse, but too small for the tall, elegant racing horses and their riders. 

The opening drew closer, closer…

Just as he was about to release his tightly held breath when they burst through the clearing in the trees, a flash hit his eyes from the side. The next second passed in what seemed like full minutes.

His horse screamed, an ugly, piercing sound that ended in a harsh gurgle, and he knew it was dead before it hit the ground. As the horse's legs buckled, he felt himself thrown from its back, and was launched right at the trunk of a hefty fir tree. He slammed into it facefirst, feeling bone crunch and teeth crack from the impact. 

It didn't hurt, he thought as he fell to the ground in a heap, everything still in slow motion. Black immediately crowded into his vision, and his ears felt as though they'd been stuffed with cotton. As the world spun and tilted madly through what little he could still see of it, the rider that had been directly behind him came to a stop next to him. 

His view of the world was consumed by a pair of tall, thick boots approaching him and standing beside his face, with a bloody wire trailing next to them. 

As the darkness finally overtook his sight, his last thought before losing his consciousness was surprise that he did indeed have time to feel guilty about his horse.

\-------------

The scent of wood smoke was the very first thing that broke through his fogged brain. Then, the cold dampness of grass against his face. After that, bickering voices that he couldn't understand. Whether that was due to them speaking another language or his still-groggy mind, he couldn't say. Finally, his vision began to return; blearily he tried to will them to focus and clear, but they took their time. He squinted, and the image before him sharpened slightly. 

He was on his side, and saw straight ahead of him two men sitting next to a fire. It was a big bonfire, not a tiny campfire like he'd expect to see if they were anywhere near his village. They must have gone very far while he'd been unconscious. 

The two men arguing and becoming louder over by the bonfire wore bright red clothes, as he'd seen earlier during the chase. They were who he'd feared. Why he hadn't already been killed was beyond his aching brain at the moment. Aching brain, head, face, nose, mouth, shoulder-- nearly everything hurt. Death might actually be less painful.

Shouts came from the men by the fire then, and he finally determined it was a language he didn't recognize. One man was average height, but very strongly built with short dark hair; the other was quite tall with longer, curly brown hair. Just as they both moved to draw their weapons-- short swords, if he had to guess-- a sharp command from behind him made them, and him, flinch. The two men ceased their argument and released the handles of their weapons guiltily. 

The same tall boots from before stomped beside his head again, causing him to jerk back away from them in fear. He shut his eyes, unsure whether playing dead or asleep would help him at this point. He heard the boots shuffle the grass next to his face, then felt one nudge his chin. 

He cried out involuntarily as pain shot through his face at the touch, and the voice belonging to the man above him made a disgruntled noise. He kept his eyes tightly closed, now in a mentally regressive attempt to hide, perhaps to hope he would be left alone if he kept his eyes shut. 

The man above made what sounded like another command, and one of the previously arguing voices responded. Running steps echoed for a moment, then approached him. The boots already beside him shuffled next to his head; he hissed as a gloved hand lifted his painful face from the ground. A leather-clad thumb and forefinger pried open one of his eyes, and he was forced to briefly stare into the face of one of his captors. The man's expression was grim and stony, half hidden behind a trimmed beard. Bright, studious eyes met his, and blinked once. 

Before he could take note of anything further, a sting in his neck distracted him. It didn't even occur to him to flinch away from the pricking near his jaw before his vision swam and doubled. The face in front of his faded away, and he only barely felt his head drop back onto the ground.


End file.
